Sleep Deprived
by Lady Labcoat
Summary: Sherlock has been awake for 6 days and cannot fall asleep. John wants to help his sleep deprived friend out any way he can. Rated M for my first attempts at smut.


**A/N: Welcome! Just wanted to say that I was the only beta reader for this story so all mistakes are my own. Also, not Brit picked. My characters may seem a bit OOC, but since they are hooking up and Sherlock is 6 days sleep deprived, who wouldn't be? All reviews welcome and appreciated! **

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Sherlock couldn't sleep. Normally, he didn't want to, but now he _needed_ to and couldn't.

"You would think after 6 days awake, sleep would come easily," Sherlock stated as he fidgeted on the couch.

"6 day?" John lowered his newspaper and turned in his chair to get a better look at Sherlock. "We finished the case 2 days ago. You haven't been able to sleep since then?"

"You think if I had I would be complaining about not sleeping?" Sherlock asked, obviously irritated.

"Perhaps. You do like to complain." Sherlock shot John a 'glance' and John returned to his newspaper. "Why don't you try your bed?"

"Honestly, John. Don't be so dull."

"My bed?"

"Too hard."

"Mrs. Hudson's?"

"Too soft!"

"So you decided to try the couch?"

"Just right, but made of leather so it sticks when I sweat."

John closed his eyes. Sweaty Sherlock. That was an image he didn't need. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to quite push it away either. "Something on your mind?" he asked while pinching the bridge of his nose.

"There is always something on my mind."

"Stressed about something?"

"Besides not being able to sleep?"

"Alright, alright," John said. "No need to get snippy."

"I am not snippy!"

"No, of course not." John finally gave up reading his paper, folding it up and sitting it on the floor. He looked over to Sherlock still sitting at the end of the couch. He had his right hand in his lap and his left elbow on the couch arm while his hand rubbed his forehead. He was slouched back with his right leg propped up on the table. John hadn't seen him like that before. Though Sherlock looked relaxed, John knew he was anything but. He wished he could do something for him. Anything to help calm his mind. Something stirred inside John and he swallowed, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, Maybe...no.

Sherlock rubbed his forehead. This was getting to be too much. Insomnia, ugh. How boring. He could think of at least 18 other things he would rather be doing besides sitting there on the couch feeling too exhausted to get up, but not enough to fall asleep. He rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes. If only it could remain dark, black. Instead it started off with little dots that morphed into colored swirls. It hurt his eyes after a while. He rubbed them opened then. He saw John staring at him and lifted his head. "What?"

John swallowed and cleared his throat. "Nothing." He looked away towards the window.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked again. John didn't respond, just continued to look out the window. "John?"

John turned to face Sherlock. He had his chin resting in his palm. His index finger rubbed the small area below his nose, as if contemplating something. He lowered his hand and sighed. He took a brief look out the window once more before standing up.

John moved to be in front of Sherlock. Sherlock could tell John was nervous about something. He brought his leg down off the table to make room for John as he bent and placed his hands on Sherlock's knees and lowered himself to his. Sherlock witnessed some hesitation in John's movements. Then again, his own confusion about what was happening may be getting in the way.

John swallowed and slowly started moving his hands up Sherlock's thighs. He sat up a little bit straighter. "What are you doing?" John raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's. There was something in John's eyes, but not being at all good with emotion or sentiment, he couldn't deduce what. John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's as his hands started to undo the other man's trousers. "John!" he started, grabbing his wrists.

They both froze. They both stared. They both held their breath.

Then, John blinked. "Just..." he stuttered, hanging his head, chin to chest. "Just... let me do this." Sherlock could feel John's pulse racing against his fingers. He looked back up at Sherlock. In a small voice he added, "Think of it as an experiment."

If Sherlock had not been caught so off guard, he would have smirked. John truly knew him well. Knew exactly what to say to catch his attention, pique his interest. "Experiment on who?" Sherlock's similarly small voice asked as he tilted his head. "On me?...or you?" The look on John's face spoke volumes. John was just as curious about that question as the man asking it. When John and him went out, he knew what people thought of them. He never denied the 'accusations', if you could even call them that. He didn't see the point. Why defend against something that isn't offensive?

John on the other hand...

"_This isn't a date."_

"_I'm not gay."_

"_We are not a couple."_

Honestly, Sherlock believed John Watson was not gay. 87% of the time. There was one other line John sometimes said that made Sherlock wonder.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that."

_That_ Sherlock did believe. He interacted comfortably with his sister (when she was sober) and her lovers (or ex-lovers). Even with others they have encountered during cases. Never once has John showed any sign of 'distress' around people of that sexual orientation.

So why would John be so insistent that he was, in fact, not actually gay? Because he was trying to tell himself that answer.

But what about Sherlock? It wasn't something he ever really gave much thought. He never really _liked_ anyone. Irene Adler had been...different. He'd admit that. But that got to him on more of an intellectual level than a physical one. Even when she was straddling him completely nude the very first time they met. He had seen naked women before, just never in that capacity. They were usually in St. Bart's morgue. And that, Sherlock knew, definitely did _NOT_ turn him on. He did take notice of her physique though. But he also took notice of John's, Lestrade's and even Sargent Donovan's. John, however, was the only person Sherlock could stand to tolerate being in a room and holding a conversation for more than half an hour.

His flatmate.

His doctor.

His partner in (solving) crime.

His friend.

His _best _friend.

His...John.

_Purely experimental_, he told himself as he loosened his grip on John's wrists. _In the name of science_, he thought as he watched John unwork his trousers. _For John. To help John._ He lifted his hips to assist in lowering his pants. _Just an experi-._

"Oh..." a deep moan escaped Sherlock's throat the moment John's mouth wrapped around him.

He hadn't even realized he was hard until that moment John's tongue swirled around his head. His mouth felt hot, smooth against Sherlock. He never knew anything could feel so good. Another moan escaped him as he was forced to close his eyes. John had one hand at the base of Sherlock, the other now sliding around his side to press against the small of Sherlock's back. He gently pulled him closer to the edge to get a better angle. His mouth stayed in constant contact.

Sherlock leaned against the couch with his head resting on the back cushion. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. How could his mind be active, yet dormant at the same time? He could feel his brain buzzing, yet nothing be present? He had felt something like this before. Back during his addiction. He had taken the drugs to stop the noise. A noise he didn't realize was still so prominent until now it was no longer there. But this was far more intense than the drugs. This could be dangerous. He closed his eyes. _Very_ dangerous. His hips involuntarily bucked up as John took him all in his mouth. Sherlock was quickly losing control. He felt as though he was spinning. His back arched. One hand grabbed at the arm of the couch and the other gripped John's shoulder.

John let out a small cry and jumped back, right into the coffee table. Sherlock's head shot up and stared at John with a startled expression. Had he done something wrong? John appeared to read Sherlock's mind and replied with, "You're fine. It's fine. Just... not that shoulder, alright?" Sherlock's eyes jumped to where he _knew_ the injury to be, but somehow did not remember. "Really, it's fine." John leaned forward and put his hand on Sherlock's left shoulder. "Do you want me to stop?"

The words were barely spoken before Sherlock replied with, "No." John sat back on his heels and ran his hand down from Sherlock's shoulder to his wrist. John lifted his arm and placed Sherlock's hand on his good shoulder. Then, as if nothing had happened, John had his mouth around Sherlock once again. He could feel the muscles in his stomach tightening and soon that feeling on spinning was occurring once more. His grip on John's shoulder tightened and for a fraction of a second he was worried he might be hurting him again. But that thought soon fled. There was no way he could let go. He felt that if he did he may fall off of the face of the Earth. A loud groan he could not hold in forcibly escaped him as John... he wasn't even sure _what_ he had just done!

For a man who had never done this before, he sure did seem to be good at it! Then again, Sherlock had never done this either. Maybe he just didn't know if it was wrong. But how could something that feels so good be wrong? _So good..._

This was dangerous. So very dangerous. John was quickly becoming his new drug and he could feel a relapse coming on. This had to stop. It had to stop now while he still had...while he was..._no... no!_

"Joohh..ah!..ah!" Sherlock cried out as he felt all self control leave his body. He rigidly twitched. His left hand gripped John's shoulder at what had to be a painful level in an attempt to still him while he made a fist with his right so he wouldn't grab the bad shoulder again. The intensity was just too much. The feeling would not cease as John continued to apply suction. He could feel John's tongue wriggle as he swallowed Sherlock down. He hummed at the first taste of him causing Sherlock to vibrate within his mouth.

John wouldn't quit. Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He wiggled. He squirmed. He tried to push away. He even startled chuckling, "Stop... Stop!" He shuddered one more time as John pulled away with a _Pop!_ Sherlock fell sideways on the couch and kicked his legs over the arm of it. He kicked off his trousers, but pulled up his pants. He collapsed back onto the couch slightly chuckling at the memory of the feelings he had just experienced. He covered his face with his hands while his laugh died down.

"John... I... ugh." He dropped his hands and turned his head to look at John. He was sitting on the floor, facing the door of the flat. His knees were drawn up and arms rested on them. "John?" There was no response. Sherlock pushed up onto an elbow. "John?" The other man only blinked. Sherlock reached out and gently touched John's shoulder, making sure not to hurt him. He jumped regardless, startled. He faced Sherlock, his expression blank. "What's wrong?"

John slightly shook his head. "Nothing." Upon seeing the strange look on Sherlock's face, a veil seemed to fall away and John was once again himself. He turned his whole body towards the couch, folding his legs up in front of him. John gave a small smile to help put Sherlock at ease. He reached out and brushed a curl from Sherlock's forehead. He scratched his nails lightly on his scalp. Sherlock's eyes drifted closed and his head fell forward, resting his forehead on the couch. John massaged Sherlock's scalp. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock hummed in appreciation. "When I couldn't sleep as a child, my mother would play with my hair. It's been decades since the last time it's been done."

"Not what I meant, but alright. And why didn't you just mention that earlier?"

"Oh."

"You're not going to fall asleep on me, are you?"

"No," he said into the couch. "That would be most uncomfortable. _With_ you, perhaps." John pulled his hands away and Sherlock groaned at the loss of contact. He could sense movement and looked up in time to see John disappearing into the kitchen. "Where are you going?"

John gave no response. At least, not verbally. Sherlock heard a door open. His bedroom door based on how long John had been out of sight and the ever-so-slight squeak of his bottom hinge. Mere seconds later, John emerged carrying Sherlock's bed comforter with him. "Make room," John commanded while approaching the couch. Sherlock tossed he back couch cushions across the room. He moved all the way up, adjusting the Union Jack pillow to rest his head on with his back turned towards the wall. John sat on the couch adjusting the blanket over Sherlock's skin clad legs. He laid back pulling the cover up. Sherlock tucked it in between himself and the back of the couch. John turned to face Sherlock, propping up on an elbow.

They simply watched one another. Eyes meeting eyes and gazing over one another's features. Sherlock smiled at the man in front of him thinking those 18 other things, now 17, he would rather be doing were no longer important. John started to chuckle at the look on Sherlock's face. "I don't think I have ever seen you so... content before. So peaceful." The smile slid from John's face so slightly that Sherlock hadn't even noticed until John looked down. "What are you thinking?"

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. A small smile slowly started to grow. "Nothing." He looked back at John. "Nothing at all."

"No wonder you seem peaceful. When was the last time that happened?" Now it was Sherlock's turn to look down. "Oh." John understood. "If you don't want to talk-."

"It was the night before Mycroft had me tossed into rehab," he explained rather quickly, as if he was just trying to get through it. He met John's eyes. "The drugs," he spoke slower. "They would clear my head. Stop the noise."

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's forehead. He reached out and played with a couple curls that fell just above his eyes. "What was the noise like?"

"It's everything. Everything I have ever heard, seen, read, just swirling around my mind."

"Mind palace," John muttered almost to himself.

"It helps with a majority of it. Now. But there are some things that just cannot be locked away or deleted."

"And you just live with it? All the time?"

Sherlock emitted a low chuckle. "Not many other options available." John nodded. He nudged his leg forward, pushing it's way between Sherlock's. "It's not so bad." He places his hand on John's hip and gently pulled him closer. "I've had it for so long its basically background noise. Like the hum of a computer." John placed his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck. His thumb made tiny circles below Sherlock's ear. "John.." Sherlock hesitated. For once he wasn't sure how to proceed. Not sure what he should say. He was so caught up in himself that he seemed to forget about John's own feelings. "Are you doing alright?" He flexed his fingers around John's hip. John took in a deep breath. Sherlock could feel it on his cheek as he exhaled. Sherlock scowled. "You're confused."

John laughed. "To say the least." A big knot formed in Sherlock's stomach. John could see disappointment. "No, Sherlock. No. Don't- don't look like that." He laid down and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's, closing his eyes. "I don't regret a _second_ of any of this. Not one moment."

"John, if you don't want to continue this, if this was something that was even _to_ continue, you have to tell me now. Before I get so enveloped in this, in you, that I can't turn back. You _are_ dealing with an addictive personality here."

"Sherlock," John groaned as he gently pressed their lips together. It was quick and it was chaste. Their first kiss. "This seems so unlike you."

Sherlock could feel something that could only be described as 'very unpleasant' inside of him. This was one reason why he never tried starting anything up with John. If he were to lose his friend, his blogger, what would become of him? He didn't want to go back to the way he was before John arrived. And deleting him from his mind, that was just one thing that could not be done. Having to go back to _never_ knowing of John's existence? The idea alone panicked him. It had been many years since his last attack, but he could feel the precipice of one lingering in his chest. Yes, Sherlock was _not_ acting like himself, but wasn't that a good thing? Who would want to love a freak? A high-functioning sociopath (a term he gave himself)? He had spent so much of his life building up walls around his emotions that he had never expected to find a life-long companion. But here John was. He was so 'alien' to Sherlock. _My personal space invader_, Sherlock thought as John got as close to Sherlock as he could without being on top of him. Though, personally, Sherlock wouldn't mind.

John could feel Sherlock's chest start to rise and fall rapidly. His breathing became erratic, his eyes wide. "Hey, now..." He raised himself back onto his elbow and placed his other hand on Sherlock's chest. John recognized the signs of a panic attack when he saw one. Many a soldier have experienced it before, during and after a battle. "I need you to breathe, alright? Can you do that for me?" Sherlock seemed to not be paying any attention to John. His eyes were instead focused straight ahead towards the sitting area. "A nice slow breath for me, Sherlock." But still he didn't listen. John sat up and angled himself to get Sherlock into the sitting position as well. John moved to sit behind him. He placed a leg on either side of Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around him and placed both hands palm side down on Sherlock's chest. "Here's what we are going to do. We are going to breathe together. Feel my rhythm?" John took a deep breathe in and slowly let it out. Sherlock could feel the coinciding movements of John's chest rise and fall with each breath. "I need you to match my breathing, Sherlock. In," he took a deep breath, "and out," he let it out. "In... and out. In... and out." It took a few tries but eventually Sherlock's breathing matched his own. John rubbed his hands on Sherlock's chest and gently kissed his neck.

"No one likes me," Sherlock finally said.

"I like you," he whispered between feather-light kissed.

"You kissed me."

"Generally a sign that someone likes you."

"You kissed me and told me I wasn't acting myself." John stopped kissing him. "Do you like it when I am not myself?"

"Sherlock, I was concerned about you. And right so! You just had a panic attack. Breathing isn't so boring now, is it?"

"They call me a 'freak'."

"I have never called you that and I never will. You are not a freak, Sherlock. Honestly, if Anderson has said it then you know it can't possibly be true." John expected some sort of chuckle, but he remained silent. "Why the attack?" Still no answer. "Sherlock?" He maneuvered his head so he could get a look at Sherlock's face. He was already fast asleep.

John moved from behind Sherlock and gently laid him down. He covered him up, tucking the blankets in around him. He stood over the couch and seriously considered whether or not he should lie back down with him or just head up to bed. He took a deep breath, the weight of what just happened settling in his gut. Suddenly he realized why Sherlock had a panic attack. If this was how John was feeling, he could only imagine what Sherlock was going through. As far as John knew, Sherlock hadn't had any form of sexual activity. Though that was only speculation on his behalf.

Making a decision, John pulled the covers back and laid on the couch with Sherlock. He knew things would all be different in the morning light, but for now it was still dark and he needed Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed him.

"We should talk," Sherlock mumbled sleepily while curling himself around and over John.

"We will tomorrow."


End file.
